Esme leaned forward, bracing on her hands and drawing her face close to his. “You see a strong woman and deem her evil. You see a quiet woman … Oh wait; you do not see them at all. Tell me truly: what did you think of me when you first spied me?”
Merik’s lips pressed tight. He stared down at the stone, knowing he could not argue. The Merik of a month ago would have denied her words. Vehemently. Angrily, with his Nihar rage to spiral loose on winds he claimed he could not control.
Now, he had no winds. Now, he had no lies he could tell himself. Cam had said as much two weeks ago. You only see what you want to see.
Just thinking of the boy made Merik’s heart shrivel. His chest suctioned inward with shame. Cam had stayed beside him, even though Merik had done nothing to deserve such loyalty. He prayed to Noden … or … or to whatever power reigned over the Witchlands, that Cam and Ryber were all right.
Esme sighed, a bored sound. “We can continue our lesson later, Prince. For now, the rain has stopped.” She twirled a hand toward the window. “So it is time that you travel to the next shrine.”
She withdrew a key from her pocket and with deft fingers, released the chain from Merik’s collar. “My Cleaved will lead you most of the way, so follow the lines as you did last night. And Prince.” She smiled again, dimple winking. “Do not try to run. You know what will happen if you do.”
TWENTY-SIX
It all happened so fast once Habim and the soldiers arrived—too fast for Safi to fully comprehend, much less react. The Hell-Bards surrendered. The Hell-Bards were put in chains. And the Hell-Bards were led away.
Then Safi was led away too, by Adders she didn’t know and a blockade of soldiers so dense, she could see nothing beyond. For the rest of the night, she saw no one she knew. No Vaness, no Rokesh, no Habim …
And no Hell-Bards. She had no idea where they’d been taken; she had no idea what was going on.
Once back at the Floating Palace, healers briefly tended her ankle, then her Adder guard had her moving again. Every detail regarding the imperial birthday party the next day had to be reevaluated or rechecked. Apparently, the rebels had entered the Origin Well grounds by a glamoured gap in the northern wall, so Safi now examined every inch of stone in the palace for signs of similar trickery.
Nothing.
Then she was forced to meet every single soldier, servant, and Adder—women and men Safi had already evaluated. Women and men as frustrated by the whole situation as Safi was. And while she interviewed them, the Adders checked all weapons, all tools, to ensure no iron had been tampered with.
The Adders found nothing, though, and Safi found nothing either.
It was well past midnight by the time she finished and was led to her room. Despite exhaustion tugging at her muscles and eyelids, her thoughts crackled with flame. Everything from the day collided in her mind in one massive, writhing conflagration—the flame hawk, the false soldiers in the woods, the doorway lit by magic.
Habim’s secret message upon the map.
Gods below, Safi wished she could talk to Iz right now. Yet no amount of clutching her Threadstone or imagining her Threadsister’s calm face made her prayers come true. Iseult, wherever she was, could not—or did not want to—dream-walk with Safi again.
At the sound of the third chimes twinkling through her garden doorway, Safi finally gave up trying to reach Iseult. She had books from Vaness’s library; she had gemstones; and she still had a plan that needed finishing.
She cleared off a space on her desk and yanked off her Threadstone. Then after setting down the quartz she’d fiddled with all day, she opened a new book and set to work. Understanding Threads by Anett det Korelli, translated from Nomatsi into Marstoki, detailed the creation of Threadstones. How Threadwitches bound people’s Threads to stones, so that lovers or family or friends would always be able to find one another. So that they would never lose those they cared for most. And since Threadwitches were bound to the Aether like Safi’s magic, it seemed a logical next try.
Besides, reading about Threadwitches made Safi think of Iseult—and just thinking of her Threadsister made Safi feel a bit better and made the fires in her mind settle.
She sank into a rhythm at her desk, fingers flipping pages. Heels drumming in time to the katydids outside. Kay-tee-did. Kay-tee-did-did. She even had threads exactly as the book described, and although she could not weave true Threads into these strands as Threadwitches did, she could concentrate on her power. On the warmth that sang within truth. On the claws that shredded within a lie.
Safi even recited the words used by Threadwitches to focus their magic: Bind and bend. Build and blossom. Family fills the heart.
Over and over, she said these words as she plaited Threads of sunset pink. Bind and bend. Build and blossom. Family fills the heart. And she kept on murmuring until at last she’d finished braiding and at last she’d finished coiling the slender weave around her quartz. At a glance, her stone looked no different than the Threadstone Iseult had given her—except for the difference in color. In fact, Safi took great care to ensure hers looked just the same.
Yet all it took was one glance for Safi to know the two rocks were not identical. The Threadstone from Iseult looked and felt alive. Safi’s Truthstone attempt, however, was just an empty hock of stone wrapped in thread.
“No, no, no.” The words whispered out, unbidden, and she knocked the useless quartz aside. Tears prickled behind her eyeballs, and she hated it. She hated it, just as she hated this palace and she hated that no one had given her any sodding answers since leaving the Well.
And above all, Safi hated that Iseult was so very far away. With Iseult, Safi was brave. With Iseult, Safi was strong. And with Iseult, Safi was fearless. On her own, though, she was just a girl trapped in another country while unknown enemies tried to kill her.
Grabbing her real, heart-achingly true Threadstone, Safi shoved to her feet. Stars flashed across her vision. She’d sat too long, eaten too little. But she ignored them—just as she ignored the whooshing throb in her eardrums. Instead, she stumbled to her doorway and pushed out into the night.
The crow wasn’t there; Safi didn’t know why she’d thought he would be. There was, however, a firefly. It winked beside the telescope. Then it vanished. Then it winked again a few paces away.
When she was growing up, Habim had told Safi that children made wishes upon fireflies, and Safi supposed that if ever there was a time for wishes, it was now. So she scurried over to it, and with a swipe of her hand, caught it from the sky. It landed gently, seemingly unconcerned by her touch.
Please, Safi begged, watching it light up. Then shutter out. Then light up again, a golden flicker that turned the Threadstone still clutched in her hand to flames. Please, Sir Firefly, she repeated. Wherever Iseult is, just keep her safe.
* * *
Iseult did not feel safe.
She might have evaded soldiers, but Leopold fon Cartorra presented an entirely new swath of dangers—dangers she was not accustomed to. She could face swords and pistols, fists and flame without batting an eye. But clever word games and courtier’s masks set her Threadwitch calm to reeling.
Iseult hadn’t wanted to leave Owl alone at the bridge, but she had wanted to let Leopold catch the horses even less. At least Owl had Blueberry to keep her safe. If the prince decided to run off with their steeds, though, then Iseult and Owl would have no transport and, worse, no supplies.
The black gelding had bolted into the forest. The roan mare had followed, and their hooves had thrashed the underbrush and left a clear trail to follow. Leopold led the way, Iseult just behind. Her gaze never left his Threads. Her hand never left the pommel of her cutlass.
Her fingers tapped out a rhythm. Until that movement made her think of Aeduan. Then she stopped.
“There is no way the horses will return to the bridge,” the prince said, tossing a backward glance. “Not so long as that bat remains.”
“We must catch them first. Then we can worry
about luring them back.”
“Oh, we will catch them. Have no fear.” Leopold strolled on, a confidence to his step. An ease, as if they merely walked the halls of a palace, not the moonlit corners of a mountain forest. “Rolf is a well-trained beast, and the mare will follow his lead.”
“Then tell Rolf to go to the bridge, so the mare will follow his lead.”
“He is not that well trained.” A laugh—again, at odds with their surroundings. And this time, contradicting Leopold’s Threads as well. Instead of pink amusement, they glimmered with fear. “Even the great white bears of the Sleeping Lands would not be stupid enough to approach a mountain bat.”
“You’re scared of him.”
“You are not?”
“No,” Iseult replied, and she realized it was true. In all the chaos of the Contested Lands, there had been no time to be afraid. Blueberry had attacked men who wanted to kill her, and that had made him an ally. “He will not hurt us.”
“Really? Do mountain bats dislike the taste of princes?”
Before she could explain to him that Blueberry only hurt those that hurt Owl, Leopold drew up short. Iseult almost ran into him. Then she saw why: they had reached a rocky clearing, no underbrush left for the horses to trample.
“Our trail has run cold.” Leopold twirled toward Iseult, Threads and expression briefly in alliance: he was frustrated. His cheeks twitched. “Any chance you can sense their Threads?”
“Animals do not have Threads.” She circled around him.
“Animals do not have them,” he asked, following several paces behind, “or you cannot sense them?”
Iseult wished he would shut up. “Does it matter? My magic will not help us, either way.” She squinted down at the earth, turned gray beneath the moon, but even with its light, it was too dark to spot hoof prints. However, a sound bubbled against her ears. Running water. Another mountain creek.
If she were a horse who had run for an hour, she would be thirsty. And if she were thirsty, she would go to a stream free of mountain bats. In a rush of silent speed, Iseult set off across the clearing. She stepped over long shadows, then into the trees that cast them, and soon enough, Iseult found the horses. They had indeed followed the water into the forest.
“Rolf,” Leopold said, delight in both his tone and his flushed Threads. Yet before he could cross to his gelding, Iseult drew her cutlass.
He halted mid-step. “This again?”
“This again,” she replied. “At the bridge, you offered to explain everything from the start. You will do that now.”
“No ‘please’?” A smile on his face. Frustration in his Threads. “I am royalty, you know.”
“And I am the one holding the sword.”
“Ah.” He huffed a chuckle, and pink amusement returned. He had liked her response, it would seem, and without another word of protest, Leopold the Fourth, imperial heir of Cartorra, began his tale.
He had a musical way of speaking. His words rolled against Iseult’s skin, a perfect rhythm of sound and pause. A perfect complement to the frozen night air as he explained how he’d been working with Safi’s uncle. Their aim had been to prevent Safi from marrying his uncle, Emperor Henrick. Then Leopold described how he had hired Aeduan under the pretense of capturing Safi, but how he had then intentionally sabotaged all travel by taking stops and even misdirecting Aeduan—all so Safi could reach safety before Aeduan caught up.
Or was meant to reach safety, until the Empress of Marstok had interfered.
Iseult said nothing throughout his story, carefully chewing over each assertion. They fit what she knew from Safi—and what she knew from Aeduan too—yet rather than trust Leopold more, she found she trusted him less. Throughout his declaration, he had kept a tired half smile upon his face, as if this entire situation were a game. As if he thought Iseult a pitiful child who needed his indulgence.
“And then,” he finished with a spin of his right hand, like a minstrel taking a bow, “I stole the monk’s coins and had my Hell-Bards transport them to Lejna. For you. All quite straightforward, if you think about it.”
Hardly, Iseult thought. Aloud, she said: “I was in Lejna. I did not see any Hell-Bards.”
“Because they were under orders not to remain, and when I arrived later, you had already moved on. I have been searching for you ever since. I was—and still am—meant to deliver you to the Carawen Monastery.”
Iseult blinked. This was easily the last place she expected him to say. Back to Lejna? All right. To Veñaza City? Sure. Even all the way to Cartorra would have made sense to her. But a Monastery in the middle of the mountains was as baffling as …
As having an imperial prince come find her in Tirla.
“Why there?” she asked.
“Because the monks will keep you safe.” Leopold said this as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “And they will protect Safiya too, when she arrives.”
Safi. For the first time since this conversation had begun, Iseult felt her calm falter. All she wanted was to be reunited with Safi. More than anything in all the Witchlands, she wanted her Threadsister at her side. For the world to feel right side up again. Safi, who was made of sunshine and laughter. Safi, who initiated so Iseult could complete. Who never abandoned her. Who was always we and us and never saw Iseult as the means, but only as the end.
And who would know in an instant if Leopold was lying.
“How long,” Iseult said, her voice almost lost to the stream, “will it take to reach the Monastery?”
Relief rushed across Leopold’s Threads. He smiled, a winning, devastating smile. “If we meet no interruptions, then we could arrive by midday tomorrow.”
Iseult’s fingers moved to her Threadstone. She stared absently at the prince’s face, purple and puffy thanks to her pummeling. She stared at his Threads too, so desperate. So hopeful.
“If I … If Owl and I go with you to the Monastery, do not think that it means I trust you.”
A pause. Wariness in his Threads, and he ran a thumb over his lower lip. Then: “What would it take to convince you, Iseult? What must I do to prove that I am here to serve you, wholly and completely? Getting you to the Monastery is my only purpose.”
Iseult almost scoffed at those words. A prince offering to serve her. What if, what if, what if. Yet, perhaps against her better judgment, she found herself believing him. The fervent urgency in his Threads was real. He might change his face to suit his needs, but he could not change his Threads.
“Do that more often,” she said after a while, her hand falling from her Threadstone. “Match your expressions to your feelings, and then I might start believing you. After all, trustworthy people do not wear masks.”
As Iseult uttered this last point, the prince’s Threads brightened with unease. Two heartbeats passed. Then all at once, a surging, delighted warmth bolted through them—and he tipped his head back and laughed. A full, unabashed sound that sent brilliant, fiery shades of pink coursing upward.
“What is it?” she asked, her cutlass dropping an inch. “What’s so funny?”
“This.” He motioned between them. “It is fascinating. Although, I will admit that I am surprised by how easily you see through my … Well, my performance.” He sketched an almost mocking bow. “I suppose I shall have to either account for your magic when you’re around, or else hope that you do not tell the world what I’m truly feeling. After all, charm is the only real weapon in a prince’s arsenal.
“But if honesty here,” he swept a hand toward his face, “is all it will take to prove my loyalty, then you have disarmed me, Iseult det Midenzi.” Again, he bowed, but this time with respect—and this time, his Threads hummed with raw intensity.
Oh, it was very strange indeed to have a prince say—and do—such things for Iseult. “Help me tend the horses,” she muttered eventually. She did not trust him fully, but she trusted him enough to follow him to the Monastery. It was where Aeduan had urged them to go anyway; she could let a prince lead t
he way.
With quick efficiency, she sheathed her cutlass with a clink of steel. They had wasted enough time here. Owl was waiting. “We will have to find a way to coax back the horses without getting rid of Blueberry.”
“Coja’kess?” he repeated.
Ah, Iseult supposed they had named the bat in Nomatsi. “It means ‘blueberry’ in Nomatsi.”
“The bat’s name is Blueberry?”
“They are his favorite food.”
Another lovely laugh split the prince’s lips, turning his Threads to a perfect shade of sunrise. “Did you hear that, Rolf?” He patted the gelding’s neck. “He’s a fruit bat. I told you there was nothing to be afraid of, old man. Nothing to be afraid of at all.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Aeduan had been here before. Right here in this dark valley, hunting down a different man who owed money to a different shopkeep. It was all he had been good for back then; it was all he was good for now.
It was as if the past month, since he’d left Yotiluzzi in Veñaza City, had never happened. The past two years, even. For here he was again, mindlessly hunting. Mindlessly gathering coin. One contract, then the next. One foot, then the next. Every mark the same, every client the same, and every day that spanned before him the thrice-damned same.
He hated it. He hated how easily he slipped back into it. How the numbness seeped into his bones as he trudged onward. How already he had abandoned planning ahead. There was no ahead—only finishing this assignment, then claiming the next. On and on until the day he died.
Aeduan knew he could not avoid his father forever. The Fury would come for him. He would have to return to Ragnor’s side. Really, Aeduan should just go north before that happened. Save everyone the trouble.
He did not go north.
Nor did he search for Prince Leopold, though that was something else that needed doing. He had questions that needed answering, ones Aeduan had believed important only two weeks ago.
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